


A bullet in your head is how I want it

by crookedspoon



Series: Spicing up the Autumn 2017 [4]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Blood and Gore, Eye Trauma, Guro, Homicidal Ideation, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, Imagination, M/M, Murder Kink, POV Ronan Lynch, POV Second Person, Prompt Fic, Skull Fucking, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 03:54:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12268356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: Ronan has a recurring fantasy: he dreams of killing someone. But not just anyone, no. He dreams of killing his father's murderer.





	A bullet in your head is how I want it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [galateaofthewestside](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galateaofthewestside/gifts).



> Written for Day 4: "Begging" at Kinktober.
> 
> This started out rather tame and then it became... rather messed up. (Well, as tame as thinking about murdering someone can be.) **Consult the tags before reading.** This is graphic in its portrayal of gore-y (if imagined) practices. I'm not even kidding. I don't want to hear complaints about the grossness of the content. You have been warned.
> 
> Soundtrack to this is "[Bad Things](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZKpkxH6UsTE)" by Wednesday 13, which is also where the title comes from.

You have a recurring fantasy: you dream of killing someone. But not just anyone, no. You dream of killing the one responsible for your father's death.

For months, you'd been imagining a faceless stranger, shadowy and dark, with cruel laughter. But he'd only be laughing until you got you hands on him. Then, he'd be groveling for his life.

That was until the Gray Man entered your lives. For a while, you'd wanted to kill him too. He was the blade that struck down your father, even if someone else had wielded him. You couldn't forget that. But your friends chose to see him as a victim of the circumstances too, and what could you do about that? Gansey disapproved of the idea of you killing anyone and you knew you'd lose him irrevocably if you did it anyway.

Not to mention that confronted with the man's matter-of-factness and his actual physical presence – his being not only an abstract figure in the world but a concrete, living person in the same room as you – confronted with the reality of him, you found you didn't have the nerve to go through with it after all. You'd beat him up if you could, to give your anger a place to go, but you couldn't kill him and be okay with that. Not for long, anyway. You had some scruples left it seemed.

So the option of killing the Gray Man was no option at all.

Then the summer ended. School began. And you finally had a face to attach to your fantasies.

Instead of the dark and shadowy stranger you had come to expect, he was an entirely too clearly rendered creature now. It was hard to hide him in the murkiness of your thoughts when his whole demeanor screamed "Notice me!"

So the backdrop to your fantasy production studios changed. The lighting became better for one, illuminating his features in a way that made the soft slopes and angles of his features so three-dimensional and real you could have taken a mask of his face from your dreams and it would fit over him perfectly.

You hated him. You hated him not only for what he had done to your father. You hated him for how handsome he was, too. He had the sort of face no one could stay mad at for long. Too bad for him that your anger was an oft-nursed and dotingly reared thing.

It needed exercise and a target to latch onto.

So here is what you'd picture: the two of you, far away from human intervention – you're certain he has hired help looking out for his ass, and it makes you feel less paranoid, even in your head, to move this to an undisclosed location. Far away from supernatural intervention too, or so you hoped. You weren't stupid enough to bring him into Cabeswater. Your imagination is timeless enough, no need to complicate it with time-bending, sentient forests that take the thoughts in your head way too literally and might actually give him an advantage if he figured out how to use it quickly enough.

Sometimes, when you felt the need to switch things up, there would be an audience. Like Adam, for example, twisting Greenmantle's arms behind his back and keeping him on his knees for you.

You'd hold a knife to his throat or a gun to his forehead and Adam's eyes would be gleaming with anticipation. As if he wanted this as much as you did.

That was proof enough it was all a fantasy. Surely Adam wouldn't condone your behavior. You had to believe that, to retain some sort of humanity. You'd have given it up a long time ago if no one had been in your life to keep your thoughts in check. You certainly couldn't rely on _Declan_ for guidance in these matters. Or any matters. He'd probably have corrupted you much sooner.

Adam and Gansey provide your moral compass, and you owe it to them to keep it together.

Which doesn't mean that you can't indulge in murder fantasies. Thoughts are free, and nobody would be the wiser.

Sometimes, there'd be a knife in your hand, slick and gleaming. Other times, a gun, the words 'Dream Killer' engraved on the muzzle. You'd press it against his forehead until his skull tipped back.

"You want me to beg for my life?" Greenmantle would ask you, aware of your finger on the trigger and the point-blank stare of the barrel. There'd be no escaping this, even if he had superhuman reflexes. 

He'd adopt an innocent expression, or one he'd mistake for innocent while practicing it in the mirror. You're no longer naive enough to fall for that. He spreads his fingers wide, pointing his empty palms toward you.

"Pretty please with sugar on top?" he says sweetly, batting his eyelashes. "Or a cherry, if you prefer." He shrugs. "You know what, make it both. I'm in a charitable mood."

Still acting as if he had all the strings in hand. In your fantasy, you'd have unraveled all of them already. You and your friends would be safe, no matter what happened to Greenmantle.

You strike the grip of your gun across his face to make him shut up. It's very satisfying.

"Ow," he complains, touching his sore cheek. "Not my face. It's my best feature. Ask my wife. Or anyone. They will agree with me." How sad, you think, that he has nothing more speaking for him than his looks. Even Kavinsky did have more to offer than that, and you hadn't been interested then either.

You strike him again.

"What did I just tell you? If it comes to my funeral, as all signs are pointing toward, my wife will want an open casket, you understand? And she can't display my handsome face unless it remains unblemished."

You object to his condescending tone. "That's what undertakers are for. I could empty a shotgun in your face and they'd still reconstruct your mug good as new."

Slowly, the sincerity of your statement would be seeping into that narcissistic brain of his. Maybe he was starting to get acquainted with the real meaning of fear.

You'd force the muzzle into his mouth, or scrape the blade along his throat, depending on the version. He'd either choke on the taste of gun oil on his tongue, or the possibility of slicing himself up simply by breathing wrong. Either way, he swallowed hard and the trembling tension in his muscles satisfied you like nothing else.

You experimented with this idea, drawing out the scene until you had him crying and pleading you for his life. Or you'd make short work of him, pulling the trigger or slashing his throat. There'd be a spray or a fountain of blood hitting your face, brain matter oozing out of the back of his skull or a curtain of blood gushing from the neck wound.

Often, you wouldn't let his suffering end there if you only nicked him a little.

It would be a terrible sight, and terribly arousing too, as his hands clawed at his neck in the vain attempt of stemming the flow. He'd be bleeding out faster than his mind could catch up, and this would have been all your doing. You'd have snuffed this man's life, exacted your revenge, and now you could go back to living your own – your actual life, the one you were supposed to be leading, not the one you'd been pretending to lead, burdened by the shadow he'd cast over you ever since your father's murder.

You repeat this process over and over, imagining Greenmantle's death in all its colorful and blood-soaked glory. It's what keeps you sane during the days when you can barely stand to be breathing, because no one is doing anything to stop this bastard, web or no web.

You fall asleep to imagined blood on your face and wake up to find it was only sweat. You eye your glistening fingertips in disbelief. You could have sworn they'd have come off red.

The next time you pull the trigger in your head, you have to squeeze your dick tight because the thought of Greenmantle's brain matter hitting the side of your car (which is sometimes white instead of charcoal, and the gore neatly fits into the spray-painted knife graphic carved down the sides) is as explosive as your own release if you think about it too much.

It's how you negotiate your own powerlessness, because how many more times can you be told to stay down because there's more to this shit than meets the eye without _doing_ anything about it? Your anger needs to go somewhere and you'd rather use it to imagine stabbing Greenmantle in his goddamn smug, arrogant face, instead of having to swallow it again and sit on it like a live grenade.

It's gratifying in a way, fisting this waste of space's hair and perforating his cheek with your knife. He's coughing up more blood than you thought was left in him, eyes ready to pop out of their sockets and fingers clawing at the gaping wound in his neck. You'd cut so deep you severed his vocal chords and white fluid was mixing with the gushing blood. Since he cannot decide whether to cough it up or choke on it, it's frothing at the gash, pink and bubbly, like a strawberry desert.

Your stomach clenches at the thought, bile tickling your gullet, but you keep it down. This is so much better than he deserves.

You run the tip of the blade up his cheek as he's spasming his last. Then you shove it through his eye. Clear fluid spills down his face as you pull out the knife. His body has gone limp and the only thing that's keeping him upright is your grip in his hair. He's tipping forward against your crotch, blood and spit dribbling from his mouth onto your jeans, and his nose rubbing against you makes you aware of how fucking hard you are, how fucking hard you have been since you started penetrating him with your knife.

Heedless and wild, you open your pants one-handed and rub your dick against his lips, painting it and his ruined cheeks redder than they already were. Your hips continue to pump your hard-on across his face. Your grip shifts in his hair and the tip of your dick bumps against the hard outline of his browbone. 

You moan and rub your tip against it again and again until it rips through what is left of his eyelid and hits the back of his eye socket. It's warm and wet and squelches as you plunge into it with ever more vicious jabs. You're high like a fever and your chest feels so light. This is the ultimate degradation. You can't think of anything that'd make you feel more in control than coming into his skull. You've won, and there's no longer anything he can do.

You come with a shamed whimper in the waking world, squeezing yourself harder than is comfortable, because you ought to be punished for having these thoughts.

Part of you is glad this is only a fantasy and you don't have to live with the consequences. No one will ever know of this unless you blab.

Another part of you basks in the senseless violence and violation of your teacher. Not that you think of him as your teacher; it implies a relationship between you, with him as an authority figure. He is nothing to you. Not anymore. You've stripped him of whatever power he might have had and returned him to being just another player on this strange, skewed board of fate.

Now the only thing that's left to do is to get rid of him for real. You don't expect any of your more grotesque fantasies to be the end of him, and it's better that way. You don't need your friends to know how fucked in the head you are.

It's hard enough admitting to yourself how much maiming and killing Greenmantle in your head is turning you on. In your darkest self-loathing moments, when you're sick with guilt and drink, you secretly wonder if Kavinsky would have understood. He'd hinted at things whose significance you only had the chance to unravel after his death.

Perhaps he could have helped you rid yourself of Greenmantle, either by dreaming up whatever distasteful material you needed to bring him down, or – you preferred option – by reenacting your messed-up fantasy. He might have liked that.

Or perhaps you're grasping at straws, hoping to make yourself feel better about your sick mind by projecting it onto a boy who can no longer defend himself.

It's not working.

**Author's Note:**

> I... kinda wanna write Kavinsky getting off on finding out about Ronan's grotesque thoughts. ~~Someone stop me.~~ [Too late.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12316023)
> 
> Tumblr post for reblogging convenience [here](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/166178695060/also-just-a-general-prompt-begging-any-trc).


End file.
